


Souviens-toi de Lausanne

by thesadchicken



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, reference to reichenbach, violin stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21544624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: Holmes tasks Watson with a puzzle. The solution is something Watson has wanted for years.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 64
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019





	Souviens-toi de Lausanne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Воспоминания о Лозанне (Souviens-toi de Lausanne)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22546804) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Written for Holmestice 2019.

“Do you remember Switzerland?” he said, as the rain struck our windows.

I leaned back in my chair and stared out into the sorrowful sky. The fire crackled behind me, soothing and warm, as I watched the downpour against the glass. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes lean over the arm of his chair, and then his finger fell upon a string and I heard the tender whine of his violin. Arms held up and bent at the elbows, he played.

Yes, I remembered Switzerland. I remembered it twice.

First, the roiling waters, the rumble and roar as they churned so far below – so far and yet too close, too close as they swallowed his body. I remembered the fall, and the blow, and the final sight of him; disappearing forever. How the mist from below rose and touched my cheeks, how I closed my eyes against such softness, how my breath came out in sobs. When I remembered Switzerland, I remembered the falls first.

But then there was another memory – newer, kinder – of another Switzerland, only a few months ago. The houses embracing the river; and the river holding the houses; and the water not roaring but singing, gentle this time. Lausanne stretching out before me as the hansom cab stopped in front of the _Hôtel International_. His letters in my hand, and his voice in my head.

“Yes, I remember Switzerland,” I answered.

Holmes was still playing his violin, the melody simple and slow. I did not recognize it as anything he’d played before, and yet it was familiar. I turned to him, observing the arch of his eyebrows, the fluttering of his eyelids, the curling of his lips. Why had he asked me about Switzerland? I knew better than to inquire.

“Do you remember the case?” he smiled only slightly, his voice a mere whisper above the music.

I frowned at him, although his eyes were closed. I remembered both cases perfectly. The professor; the boy with the note; my own racing heart as my feet pushed me forward – and the footprints, ending at the edge. Or the lady Frances, the mystery of her disappearance, and the voyage through Europe that brought me back to him – in Montpellier, France.

Holmes was smiling still, his cheek pressed against his violin as he played. I shook my head at his callousness. I knew from his smile that he wanted me to guess: Reichenbach or Lausanne? I remembered both. I wish I only remembered one.

Then an unusual movement caught my eye. Holmes was bouncing his knee as he played, lifting it up and then moving it down against his chair. It was uncommon for him to move at all when he played. I tilted my head to the side, and then I saw it: the cudgel, short but thick, propped between his thigh and the arm of his chair. And I remembered something else: the bearded man who had attacked me in Montpellier, and the French workman who had used his cudgel to save me – the same French workman who had later revealed himself as Holmes in disguise.

“The disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax,” I said, in answer to his question.

He nodded slowly. His hands stilled over his violin and the music stopped. For a few seconds, there was silence. I did not understand the purpose of his questions, but I knew that all would be revealed in good time. Holmes enjoyed taunting me with puzzles. I leaned my head against the back of my chair. “What piece was that, Holmes? It seemed familiar.”

He looked at me, a peculiar expression on his face. “They played it in Lausanne,” he said, eyes gleaming with mischief.

~

Later, as I was getting ready for bed, humming the oddly familiar tune Holmes had played for me, I thought of his curious questions and even more perplexing answer. There was a problem there that he was waiting for me to solve. I thought of Switzerland, both Reichenbach and Lausanne, and of the longing that tainted both memories. Being away from him, and then finding him, the same fear twisting my insides – _when will I lose him again?_

In my mind I saw his strong grip on the cudgel, and I remembered the relief of being saved, the sting of having disappointed him. And then this afternoon he’d placed the cudgel between us, as a reminder – _a reminder of what?_

Lady Frances Carfax, Lausanne, the cudgel, Montpellier… I had applied Holmes’ methods to the problem, and I was close to a solution. There was one missing link…

I stopped unbuttoning my shirt. My hands fell to my sides. Outside, it rained still.

The melody I had been humming seemed to cling to the very air around me. Familiar, so familiar – they played it in Lausanne. Holmes had given me the solution.

I ran downstairs to the sitting-room, and I shuffled through the papers on the untidy desk Holmes kept in a corner. I found what I had been looking for: a sheet of music, my friend’s clear handwriting darkening the page with notes and comments. The composer’s name, on the upper right corner: Erik Satie. And the title above: _Je te veux_.

I heard a low chuckle from behind me, and turned to find Holmes in his dressing gown, smiling at me. “You told me they played it in Lausanne, Watson, when you were staying at the _Hôtel International_. A remarkable piece, as you described it to me in your letter.”

I nodded. “Yes. There was to be a show of Satie’s work in Montpellier. You were eager to attend, but we were in a hurry –”

“It took you quite some time, but I suppose you did solve the puzzle. Well done, Watson. Although I had hoped you’d remember the name of the piece without looking.”

I looked down at the paper and read it again. “ _Je te veux_ ,” I whispered. French for… I want you. My eyes searched for his in the dark. My own heartbeat thundered in my ears as I finally understood the purpose of the game. My fingers trembled as I let the paper fall to the floor. _Je te veux, je te veux, je te veux_ …

“Shall I play it again?” he asked, reaching for his violin.

I closed the distance between us and held his hand in mine. “Please do,” I said, relishing the touch of his skin against my own.

Our eyes met, and as he gently leaned forward, so did our lips.


End file.
